


From a Father to a Son [A letter]

by arnediadglanduath



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Letters of apology, Letters of reminiscence, Sad, The author was moody, death of a character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 08:41:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17577572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arnediadglanduath/pseuds/arnediadglanduath
Summary: King Thranduil writes to his son on his deathbed...of things that were...things that are...and things that he wishes could have been different but accepts nevertheless.





	From a Father to a Son [A letter]

I have seen many things. 

I do not say this with pride; merely with factuality. A King must see many things in order to ascend the tier of wisdom. Even then a King understands that wisdom is a bottomless well; one whose depths circumvent all parameters of time. Sometimes such depths are discernable...sometimes the water is clear and cold like the Anduin in spring. Sometimes the waves of knowledge are turbulent...muddied...thick with the silt of uncertainty and the passage of all things that have been and ever will be. 

Years do not matter during such times; experience and knowledge do not matter because the chronological march of the future is an inevitable thing...and so a King must hearken to it and do with it as best he can. He must present himself with grace and fortitude in order to uphold the apraxia of his people...he must suffer the ravages of war and grief with regality because if he does not...what hope does his Kingdom have?

A monarch is the mouth of the folk that he governs over.

To sit upon a throne and look magnificent is a task that even the most base of commonfolk could achieve...should they bathe and put on airs. A _dwarf_ can sit upon a throne and look as if he knows the world if he should brush his beard and try hard enough not to drink too much ale. To lend a listening ear is a step forward. To lend a listening ear and to pass judgement that is benevolent and forthright is quite another. Whether that ear be pointed or rounded...whether the auditory passageways that hearken to the people are mortal or immortal...the seat of the ruling governance is nothing but what it is...a seat. 

A privileged seat...but a seat nevertheless. I think that I have loved my seat more greatly than my people in the past. Such vices are common among those borne into great things. My father warned me of the vices of pride and I heard him...but I did not heed him. I let greed surpass all boundaries of goodness and wisdom...I fell to bitterness when I could not see the good in the world and my people...my poor people...they have suffered. They have bled immortal blood onto the rich soil of this forest that was once so beautiful...cried out to Ilúvatar with their last...dying breaths while I forged a campaign wrought in vengeance and fire. 

...And yet they still call me King.

 _’My Lord, Your Majesty...Sire…_ how such postulations lose their value with the passage of years. Oropher warned me that it would be so...warned me that the crown that sat so proudly on my head at the time of my coronation would grow desperately heavy...would bend my soul with the weight of the responsibility and the terrible guilt of my errs. _’ _Onya_ ….you do not know the burdens of the choices you will make...you do not know the monstrous darkness that is the fear of being a great King...but a terrible man.’_

And I laughed at him...young..brash and foolish with the Midsummer festival lights strung over our heads and too much _miruvóre_ in my veins. A pretty _elleth_ on my arm with hair the color of soft wheat and eyes as blue as summer skies...eyes that would be forever echoed in those of my son. _She_ who would become my wife...she who would then die in a cold dungeon far from my embrace...her spirit a sweet...flickering thing that would ever be bitter like copper on my tongue. I laughed at my wise...tired _Átaremma_...I laughed at him and he looked at me in that indulgent...sad way.

And then my Átar died.

He died, and I did not understand the significance of what had happened until many years later. Until the brash hatred of my youth had worn thin and I sat on my antlered throne with my son before me...wiser than I was at his age...with his dark brows and his mother’s eyes and a solemn frown that was too much like his _naneth’s_ for me to take to credit as my own. Come back from a great war...battle-dirtied and tired and haunted and I wished for my Atar because I did not know what to say to him.

...I did not know how to reassure him of my love despite what I had seen as an abandonment...so many, many years before. I wished for him because his goodness was always a temperment to the coldness in my soul...to the great fear of losing my people to a world that was no longer kind to the _Eldar_. A world where the tales of the _Sindar_ heroes of old were swiftly passing from the realms of history into that of myth and legend. 

How do you conscience the metaphorical death of your lineage?

Even now...I do not know. The mere concept of the spirit of those who had come from Valinor fading into the ether was a terrifying thing. When I was young the courtiers whispered of it. Clutching at the skirts of my naneth, I listened to the dark and terrible whispers of the death of our people...watched my father’s eyes grow heavy and saddened with the knowledge that Middle Earth was not the paradise it once it had been. Things change with war...with the division of families, with the insurge of Darkness. 

The land becomes sullied, the hearts of men become bitter and watchful instead of giving and understanding. And elves...of course elves hide away...fade into the trees until the eyes of others cannot distinguish the difference. Men...we always accuse men of being fearful of us...of killing us because they do not understand our ways. Truthfully, the fault is as much our own as it is theirs. At what point did preserving our purity morph into prejudice...at what point did we come to look at those who were not as we are as lesser...and if not lesser...less resilient and therefore somehow less wise? 

Maybe that is the failure of all great things...a lack of foresight...of acceptance. A stubborn clinging to that as it once was without the ability to bow to the verity that all things must change. I have walked Dol Godur when its name was that of light and happiness. I looked at the stars over the hilltops when they were not shrouded in a great blackness...and still I could not see. At times I do not know what was my greater failing...my inability to evolve...or my inability to prevent the great tragedies that befell all that I held dear. ...And I did hold it dear. Perhaps I held it _too_ dear; and in those singular, desperate acts of preservation I mitigated such loss with my own terrible cowardice. Thinking on it now does no good, of course...but when you have naught to do but look back...you cannot help but cast your musings into your wrongdoings and your blindnesses. 

Maybe someday, you will read this and understand that it is not all the drivel of an old _ellon_. 

I am not fair to you...have not been fair to you. I did not listen to you when I should have...I did not tell you how dear you are to me when your eyes became so heavy with sadness I feared that you would Fade. I did not hold you enough as a babe, and I did not take your hand and guide you as my father did for me. Of such crimes there can be no recompense...of such negligence I alone am guilty and no stain can be greater on my soul than the horrid truth that I...as a father...ignored my son. My son who would not be King.

You travel now...sometimes I hear of your ventures...sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I wonder where you are looking...with your mother’s eyes and your clear spirit. Sometimes I am terribly offended that you would choose the company of a dwarf over your old Átar...and sometimes I understand why you have. The woods about me grow greener, but Autumn comes for this weary soul...and unlike some winters...I do not think I will see the Spring.

...I do not think I wish to. 

Rhun is like a myth to me...I have never been there, but I admire you for going. I have always admired your adventurous spirit...though I have never encouraged it. You will not make it back, I don’t think...before my time...and I want you to know that I love you...ionneg. I do not begrudge you your distance...I do not begrudge you your happiness and I am happy for you. Do not be sad for me...for I go to join your Naneth and your Aduadar...his forefathers and their forefathers. I will go to the Halls and look upon the face of Illuvatar and tell him of your great deeds and we will all smile for you...in the sunlight...in the Afterwards.

Do not think of returning to rule in my stead.

Eryn Lasgalen does not need a King, though I have left those who would oversee the people affects that will aid them in leading our people into a new age. I don’t know what will become of us, that is frightening...but I accept it. More and more...our people wander into dappled shadows...become one with that which is blooming and growing and while I have considered the prospect...I do not think my Fate is to become that of the fae. 

Legolas… _Novaer, savo 'lass a lalaith...an gell nîn._. I must go, but know that I am always with you, and you will always be in my heart. You are my son, I am terribly, terribly fortunate to have such a son. And you have served me well, loyally, steadfastly...as only the greatest of Kings could ever ask for. Forgive me my egress, for I would stay another hundred years, but I am tired...you are grown...and I am _proud_. 

_Na lû e-govaned 'wîn,_

Your father,

_Erain Thranduil_

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** This is more experimental than anything. I've been wanting to write a Thranduil piece or two or four, and I've been reading excerpts from The Hobbit to sort of grasp his personality, but we don't see a massive amount of content in regards to him in the text. I mean, we do, but like...nuances. This was-ironically-going to be something trashy and PWP and it morphed into this extremely depressing thing...I'm not sure why. I think with age Thranduil might have been tempered a bit. Tolkien, originally, wanted a lot of elvish lore to tie into English folklore; to make it seem like the elves of Middle Earth remained and became what we know-and what he referred to them as-as 'fairy stories.' I'm not sure at what point in Middle Earth's history this would have occurred...if Thranduil passed at all. I think it's safe to say he probably did at some point. But yeah...this turned out a far cry from what it was going to be. 
> 
> **Translations (not all of them, just the more vague ones)** :
> 
>  _Átaremma_ -This is the long version of 'father' Átar would be the short version. 
> 
> _Aduadar_ -this would be sort of be a vague translation of 'grandfather.' It's literal translation is like...kind of "twice father", and is in entirety somewhat rough and bulky but it works.
> 
>  _Novaer, savo 'lass a lalaith...an gell nîn_ -"be good, have joy and laughter, for my joy" I think I liked this just for the simple idealism of Thranduil telling Legolas to "be good". Something sweet and simple but deeply meaningful from a father to a son.
> 
>  _Na lû e-govaned 'wîn_ -until we next meet. 
> 
> We of course know _naneth_ -mother _ionneg_ -my son _elleth_ -female elf _ellon_ -male elf.
> 
> Thank you for reading


End file.
